


Roger the Cat & Betty the Asshole Betta Fish: A CS Story

by itsalostgirlthing



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-26
Updated: 2016-07-26
Packaged: 2018-07-26 19:07:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7586353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsalostgirlthing/pseuds/itsalostgirlthing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I'm acknowledging that in the food chain of pets…" Emma's always wanted a pet, but a fish isn't what she had in mind. Plus, the neighbor's cat keeps sneaking into her apartment, and little Roger loves Emma almost as much as Emma loves him. All is well and good until said neighbor comes knocking on her door.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Roger the Cat & Betty the Asshole Betta Fish: A CS Story

**Author's Note:**

> Roger as in Jolly Roger because I am trash. I love cats. I also had a betta fish and I still have a lot of unresolved issues from our time together.
> 
> (I curse my friend for picking it. Rest in peace, Fesh the Fish.)

Emma Swan never had the picket fence life. She had never inhaled the scent of garden flowers baking in the hot summer sun, or petted a lounging cat on the porch banister eyeing a golden dog running around an old tree she was proud to have in her yard. Sure, she would've loved having a pet like the ones she imagined cuddling up to on lonely nights inside her current and previous apartments, but cats and dogs… Well, as much as she wished for a fuzzy little companion, it was a big step. A big commitment. Could she even go out, adopt a fluff-ball, and truly give it a better life than some other family with that white picket fence?

But 'Betty the Betta Fish'—its official and less offensive name—was a different story. That fish's life was thrust into her hands, literally, as an apartment-warming present from her best friend's little sister, Anna. She could remember the day far too well.

"Oh. Wow. It's really moving in there," she said, feeling Anna's eyes, sparkling with child-like excitement, on her.

"I know! He's a live one. You know, we had one when we were little, but then we had to give her to our cousin when we moved over to the East Coast, and god, I was so sad because I used to love watching him swim around in circles, up and down, and around. Didn't I, Elsa?"

"Anna," Elsa said through a tight-lipped smile, "isn't Kristoff waiting for you?"

"Oh… Right. Thank you, sister, for remembering the person balancing the giant loveseat in the stairway all by himself." She scrunched up her face and started to back out of the room. "Yeah, I'll be right back. Oops." In a blur of red hair and distant apologies to Kristoff, she left Elsa and Emma to stand in silence; Emma staring with unmasked fear at the glass bowl in her hands.

Elsa's laugh broke her out of the fish's spell and when she tore her eyes away from its long, flowing pearly tail, Emma started, "Elsa…"

"It's not that big a deal, it's only a fish." Her smile was unconvincing.

"What am I supposed to do with it?"

"For starters, stop holding it like it's going to jump out and bite you."

"Elsa, I barely remember to regularly feed myself let alone to keep this thing alive."

"Set a timer on your phone?"

"I guess." Emma's eyes fell back on the tiny life swimming in her hands. "Well… Hello, fish. Welcome home," she sighed, tapping the glass bowl with her nail.

"Emma! You're not supposed to do that."

"My god. This isn't going to end well, is it?"

But nearly a year and a half later, Betty the Betta was still alive. Though she learned that her flashy, magenta finned fish was technically a male, easily spotted by the experienced fish owner. But, eh. Technicalities—he didn't seem to mind.

Their routine went along the same every day and she was proud to say that she no longer needed an alarm, but it was always a hassle (and gamble) in begging her good friend Ruby to stop by and feed Betty when she went out of town to visit her adoptive mother. And sometimes she wondered whether the fish even acknowledged or was capable of appreciating her dedication to an unaffectionate pet that was forced onto her.

And, seriously, she didn't understand what was so terrible and wrong in his little swimming life. He still flared up, after almost two years, every time she approached his tank to provide him food like a good owner. In the beginning, she'd taken his dislike of her seriously and even bought him a bigger tank—and all the ridiculously pricey equipment that went along with it—to give him some room. She understood how imprisonment and defensiveness went hand in hand, after all.

Didn't work.

So, then she tried out armfuls of food types and brands to see which he liked best. For a while, she thought things were going, well, swimmingly. After playing with the fish store owner's bettas, dipping her fingers in as he instructed and watching them weave in, out, and around, she'd gone home with confidence to try it with hers. Even after a year and all the hassle, she'd barely touched the surface and had the grumpy little monster nip her finger.

"Ahh!" She withdrew her hand and wiped her cheek of the droplets of tank water that flew there in the process. "What the hell is your problem, fish?! Why do you always go all warrior on me—the person who takes care of you every single god damned day? I think I've spent more money on you than myself," she hissed.

Even Ariel, the marine-life whisperer, couldn't get the fish to loosen up and be happy. Still, she pushed on and two years of countless live water-plants, fake plants, rocks, houses—one even the shape of Spongebob's pineapple home—pellet brands, freeze-dried brine shrimp and bloodworms later, Betty was still, as she nicknamed, the "Asshole fish."

God, was it horrible to imagine all the ways she could be free of this thing without her having a hand in it?

Not long after the boxes and lamps had cleared from in front of the apartment next to her, she started to receive visits from a very handsome cat whom she'd first found sunbathing on her balcony; its half-closed eyes idly resting on her told her he wasn't in the slightest bit alarmed by her presence. The glint of the silver tag on its collar convinced her that it must be the new neighbor's cat. (And, she may have spotted a bag of cat litter while rubbernecking during her mysterious neighbor's move.)

'Roger,' the charming tuxedo cat, soon made himself at home in her little apartment, especially once the heat wave hit when she practically nailed the window open in hope of a stray gust of wind blessing her apartment. That's when he hopped up onto the window sill and then claimed the plush armchair sitting under it. That first time she discovered him actually in her apartment, he simply held eye contact with her, as if saying, "…May I help you, human?"

And, Roger was a fearless and pretty bold cat, bumping into her legs when she came through the door not long after—demanding attention. He even allowed her to cradle him, but meowed incessantly until she resumed scratching underneath his collar and behind his ears.

"Alright, alright. Come here, cat," she'd said after a particularly long day. Plopping down on the couch, she habitually switched on the TV and did her best to ignore the familiar sharp tips of his claws kneading through the layers of clothing on her stomach. "Y'know, if pets take after their owners, then yours must be a handful, too." Roger was a smart cat, smart enough to at least recognize when she was making a side remark, but with the loudness of his purring, he wouldn't have taken offense to Emma's comment even if he'd wanted to.

Her phone came to life beside her, flashing a picture of Elsa. Emma stopped her petting, and Roger immediately meowed—whined—in protest when she gently scooted him over onto the couch cushion to get up.

"Oh, stop. I'll be back in a second, needy cat."

"Emma. Please don't tell me you're kidnapping the neighbor's cat. Again." She could hear the laugh in Elsa's voice and envisioned her shaking her head.

"Fine. I won't tell you."

"Why don't you just get your own? Crazy cat-stealing woman."

"Because I love this one." It was Emma's turn to whine.

Yes, Emma very much adored this handsome, adorable, and clever cat. Too clever. (Did they really take after their owners that much?) In fact, he was so savvy that he always waited until she was distracted to narrow in on the tempting, forbidden toy darting around across the room in the so-far seemingly impenetrable, roofed, see-through box of water.

He studied its movements. He wanted it.

The news emphasized the storm brewing for that upcoming Saturday, yet there it was, making an early appearance on a Thursday afternoon and pouring down in sheets over the city as far as she could see from the tower of her building. Fortunately for Roger, the awning over her balcony stopped some of the rain from hitting the little side window that Roger used as a cat door, but it also let in a freezing chill that sent jolts of pain through her bones, cramping her hands and feet.

It was Thanksgiving and her plans of meeting with her adoptive mother were cancelled—visiting Maine was one thing, but visiting her mother's family last minute across the Atlantic was another. Emma was on an unexpected vacation at home, free to stay bundled up watching early Christmas specials on TV with her cat. Oh, and the fish, too.

By this time, Roger had his own food and water bowls, but both had been left untouched the last couple of days. This always gloomily reminded her that he had a real home of his own that he belonged to. With the storm raging, his owner must've kept him locked inside, safe and dry. As she was cleaning Asshole-Fish's tank, a little pre-Christmas music purposely blaring in the background higher than her unexpected feelings of loneliness in missing the holiday, she didn't hear or notice Roger outside the locked window, soaked and calling for her help in long, drawn-out cries.

She didn't know how long he'd been there, but he was pacing across the beam in frustration.

"Roger!" She dropped what she was doing and jumped towards the window, yanking it up, and pulling the cat out of the cold and into the warm fluff of her sweater. She could change later; her cat came first.

And again her phone rang. She suspected Mary Margaret and her fiancé for the second time calling to invite her over for Thanksgiving dinner. After all, she only had so many friends who'd extend an invitation on such close-knit holiday like this one. With a quick kiss to his head, she set Roger down and rushed over to take off her damp sweater and drape it over his spot on the chair before answering Mary Margaret's call. He hopped up and burrowed in, soft purrs of thanks radiating from underneath all that soaked fur.

"Emma! Finally." She could hear the hopefulness and smile in Mary Margaret's voice. Aside from a rocky relationship with her step-mother (who actually agreed this year to finally join Mary Margaret's patchwork group of friends and David's family for Thanksgiving), Mary Margaret was an orphan, too.

Her sweetness made up for her well-intentioned pushiness and persistence. Still, Emma declined while making her first mistake: keeping on the phone after letting a cat get comfortable in a home with a resident fish. The second was assuming said cat was out of sight, snuggled up somewhere trying to get warm—while, third, the tank's lid was still on the table.

Off the phone, alone with her cat, fish tank cleaned, a movie on TV that she was hurrying to get back to, and stomach grumbling, she pulled out the leftover take-out from the night before and set it on the counter when she heard an unfamiliar voice—panicked, mumbling curses, and… Yup, accent.

"Roger! Roger! Where are you, bloody cat."

She walked slowly, hesitantly, toward the sliding door and though the little wall between the balconies made it impossible to see her neighbor, she could hear him clear as day. And, son of a bitch, Elsa was right—she was going to look like the crazy cat woman trying to steal his away.

She took a deep breath and awkwardly replied, too low for the violent wind outside, "Hi, uh—I think I have your, um—"

"Sorry, love, but I can't hear a thing you're saying," he shouted around the divider.

"I have your cat! Roger?! Yeah, he's—I'm in 3C!"

"Bloody—" The rain let up slightly, enough that she was able to pick up a string of curses not meant for her to hear. Oh god, it was so British. "I'll be right over!"

She slammed the sliding door shut with maybe too much force and did a once-over on herself, then grabbed her 'Cooking For Idiots' book she'd been given as a gag gift, but actually found very useful, and threw it in the closet on the way to answer the door.

When she opened the door and finally saw her mystery neighbor, she tried to keep her face friendly and calm, despite her brain taking its time 'assessing' him. She almost didn't want to look at him, she wasn't prepared for this; maybe a stained shirt or bald patch, some average Joe or James, but this man was nearly uncalled for. After a beat, she remembered that as a grown woman, she could handle some—dear god, those eyes.

"I am so sorry about my cat."

"Really, it's okay. He's absolutely charming." 'Chill out, he's just another neighbor. A pretty good-looking neighbor,' she told herself.

"He seems to always find ways to sneak out undetected, but I really can't blame anyone but myself. Should've known better than to name him after the old skull and crossbones." He smiled, one corner tugging up a little higher than the other as he subtly 'assessed' his neighbor back. "Where are my manners?" He stumbled a bit in his words, it was so masked though that she would've probably missed it if it weren't for the little nervous tick of him scratching behind his ear. "The name's Killian," he said, then added as a clumsy afterthought, "—Jones," and cleared his throat.

As if flipping a switch, he seemed to rid himself of all lingering shyness, a practiced technique she thought, but Emma had already observed enough to not feel intimidated. She liked the tiny spark that seemed to be dancing in his eyes and she irrationality hoped it was more than just natural charisma that brought it to life.

"So, 3C—"

"Emma Swan," she said unhurriedly, impressed by the hint of allure that managed to come out with it.

"Emma." She felt reassured by the same hint in the sound rolling off his tongue as well.

And, the longer his attention was on her, the longer they were in each other's presences, the more comfortable they both became. Sometime along the way, she started leaning on one hip instead of sizing him up and her crossed arms became unfolded. He was nice. This thing they were doing was nice, and he wasn't breaking eye contact as much either. Or, adjusting his jacket, nor fiddling with his ring (which was thankfully not on his left ring finger).

Everything was great. Then Roger came back into discussion.

"Ah, I see this is where Roger's been escaping to all this time. What's your cat's name?"

Cat? Roger was the closest thing she ever had to her own cat. He even had his own little set of toys near his water and food bowls—Oh, god. No. Damn it. Son of a—that's it, the jig was up. Her fate was sealed because she never considered the consequences of placing Roger's things in clear view of the hallway and now she was flailing. She didn't have a clue what her next move was going to be. Every approach and reply would no doubt make him barge pass her, grabbing his cat, and locking him up for good in his own apartment because Emma, the psycho woman next door, had been trying to lure his away.

Instead of responding, she stood there, head facing the cat toys and bowls she'd gone out of her way to buy for a cat that wasn't even her own, and bit her bottom lip in almost well-hidden panic. There had to be a way out of this.

Maybe if she concentrated hard enough, she'd discover some secret power of invisibility locked away inside her and in this convenient moment, it'd decide to manifest itself. 'Look! I'm the Invisible Woman, spectacular enough to make you forget and forgive the fact that I've been trying to take ownership of your cat. At the very least, you can't see me!' (And commence the moans of an embarrassed and desperate ghost.) But no such luck with the superpowers.

However, there was luck in having a very perceptive and interested neighbor who could read the entire story on her face and didn't seem to find her cat craziness crazy at all. The stunning blonde next door to him had taken to catering to his attention-demanding Roger, and at the very least, it was enough to make him smile at the humor of it all. But he was torn between being a gentleman and the scoundrel he no doubt also was. He settled for something of the two.

"Don't tell me their name is Roger, too?" The smile he flashed her was meant to be both teasing and apparent that he was still as charmed by her as she'd been with Roger when she first found him lazing around in her home all that time ago. But all of it was smothered by the unbearable wave of heat creeping along her face. Nevermind that he was basically making light of their co-ownership of his cat, the word 'mortification' hardly described just how much she wanted to give him back his cat, scoot him out the door, slam it, and bolt it shut, never to be opened again.

'Fuck, Elsa was right.'

She tucked a loose strand of her hair behind her ear, glancing everywhere but at Killian and pulled her lips into a tight smile in response—well, what he'd barely qualify as a smile. She winced at the strain, but mostly how stupid this all felt. How she must've looked.

'If I open my mouth to say something, I might scream. Please, neighbor who I will make sure to avoid for the rest of my time here until my new apartment hunting is complete, just ask for the cat and go, just ask for the cat and go, just ask for the cat and go,' she begged in her head.

Killian sensed his mistake and shifted. "You know, it's actually quite the compliment that he trusts you so much and with all my swing shifts, I hardly give him the attention he deserves—"

"Oh my god," Emma finally interrupted, slapping a hand over her face. "Please, just don't. I'm the cat lady. The crazy frickin' cat lady who was cat-napping your cat. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, but he just kept coming every day and I figured I'd just make it all easier and get him a few things, but I didn't expect it to last so long. He's really such a cool little guy and, yeah, I guess he's like my pal, too… Which makes me sound even creepier, lonely, pathetic—"

"Emma, breathe," Killian laughed. The bastard actually laughed. "It's fine, I just… It's cute. It's endearing. Really, it is."

"Please, just take him, your cat, and I promise to never do this again." For the hundredth time, she tucked that same loose piece of hair out of her face and in her current mood, she swore to god she was just going to chop it all off once this was over.

"All honesty, no worries, darling." He made sure to sound as sincere as possible. Playing no games, he left his expression completely free for her to soak in, and it did make her feel the tiniest bit better to see he wasn't mocking her.

Still, the silence thickened.

"Um, yeah, I'll just then…" He cleared his throat. "Roger?" he called into the apartment, but they didn't hear the plop of four paws hitting the carpet. "Roger," he said a little louder, but they assumed the cat was probably still lounging on the other side of the couch.

"He's probably still cold from the rain. Maybe you should just, you know. Go pick him up," she said, noting the improvement of her ability to communicate without a tinge of hysteria.

"Yes, right. I'm a terrible parent, poor bugger. May I?" She followed him into the room, dull and blue from the storm clouds outside, and for the first time in their long conversation, she remembered her paused movie and the Christmas music still playing on the radio.

Killian walked carefully and slowly through the apartment, surveying the minimalist style and wondering from the very few photos of mostly people their own age—friends?—if the simplicity wasn't intentional. However, amidst the colorless surfaces and paint, it made the few things that seemed worn, colorful, and loved stand out. Mismatched paintings all with bright, grainy strokes decorated the walls of the living space; and her couch, loveseat, arm chair, and the blankets and pillows adorning them, were varying shades of reds, oranges, and threaded gold—all welcome on a wretched day like this. There were books lining the wall beside the sliding glass door to the balcony, and a large fish tank next to that. With it, the opportunity to salvage and spark up a neutral conversation with Emma sprung to mind.

"See, you are a lover of animals." His threw her a tentative smile as if he were trying not to scare her as he nodded towards the tank. "Are you planning on getting a fish? Albeit less exotic, I recommend a good ol' goldfish, but stay away from those bettas—I hear they're really temperamental."

"I already have a betta, actually. Betty. Betty's a dude." Her tone was lighter and he counted it as a victory, but confusion and curiosity had him doubling back towards the tank.

"Huh, I don't see Mr. Betty in there."

"Oh, I didn't turn the light back on. Here, he's magenta and—" She switched on the light which revealed all her carefully decided underwater decorations, but no fish. "And, he's not here... I'm not delusional, I swear… What the hell? Where'd he go?" She tapped on the glass with her nail. So what if Elsa told her not to do that?

"Is he camouflaged?" Killian asked, bending over and nearly pressing his nose to the glass, looking for this elusive fish.

"Nope. Not at all."

"That's odd." Killian straightened up and peeked over the couch when he spotted a black and white tail whipping contentedly through the air. "I found Roger though and…" His face paled instantly, the look of horror and even terror on his face. "Bloody hell." Emma walked over and gasped.

Roger had it. The limp pink fish body of Betty pinned beneath both fluffy white paws, gnawing and nipping with sheer cat-delight. "Do you think it's…" her sentenced trailed off because she knew. She knew… It was done.

"Roger, stop it!" His commands fell on indifferent twitching ears. "I am so sorry. Emma, I am so sorry. We can—I can… Bloody cat, Roger! Stop."

"Killian." It was wrong. "It's okay." It was so wrong… but in that moment, in the nearly two years she'd lived in that apartment, she felt the energy change, a weight lifting off of her chest, and the feeling of a new world of opportunity, of possibility. Betty the Asshole Fish was free of his tormented existence, and she was free, too.

"I can't believe this happened."

"Guess he is camouflaged, with the red couch at least," she said, tilting her head thoughtfully. Her morbid curiosity had her scrutinizing Betty's no longer flowing fins.

"What?"

"Look, Killian, I don't know how to put this without seeming insensitive or like a psychopathic kid with ants and a magnifying glass—because I'm not! I promise you, I really tried, but that fish… For almost two years, that was the grumpiest, most miserable creature in all of existence. He hated life, he hated all the gourmet fish grub I bought for him, he hated his houses and plants and tanks, and, most of all, he hated me."

"So, you're not devastated." He shouldn't have sounded so relieved, but so far his lovely neighbor didn't seem to curse him or his cat.

"I'm acknowledging that in the food chain of pets, cat beats fish, and that's the way of life."

"Cat beats fish."

"Maybe Roger only liked me for my fish," she said with a shrug, but right on cue, Roger jumped up at his name and down to Emma's feet where he swiftly sat down, head up, and with the expectancy of love, affection, and attention in his demanding little blue eyes.

"I don't think so, and I'm quite jealous. He's never come to me so easily when I've called him." He tilted his head at the cat who in turn shifted his attention to his owner and almost mirrored the same movement. "You're a bloody menace, you know that? You murdered Miss Emma's pet."

"Well, it was more of a dependent roommate situation. I fed him. He ignored me, or glared. Kind of a cold fish." Her mouth twisted to the side as she stared at nothing in particular, flashing images of the shared misery between fish and reluctant owner, before settling back on Killian.

"You didn't just say that."

"Fish owners are allowed fish puns. You're going to tell me you've never made a cat pun?"

"Well…" He glanced down at Roger and guiltily returned Emma's stare. "Maybe one or two."

"See?"

"Alright, alright. Don't be smug about it. I'm not proud."

They each let out a well-needed laugh which exasperatedly resigned into sighs as soon as Roger jumped back up to his dead toy.

"What do I do with him?" Emma asked Killian. "Do I bury him, or release him into the ocean?"

"Well, the only patch of dirt around here is that potted plant in the lobby, and I don't think that's even a real plant."

"Okay."

"Second, if we 'release' him into the ocean, he'll probably just be pushed back toward our feet with the tide. Unless we throw him, but that seems a bit harsh."

"We?"

"Well, my furry child killed your scaly one. I'm taking responsibility."

"Ugh. It was hardly my pet, let alone my baby." She scrunched her face when Roger nipped at the head. "Yeah, no more of that, Roger." She pulled him away from the fish and up into her arms as Killian crossed the room for a paper towel to scoop up poor Betty.

"That leaves us one option, love."

"And what's that?" she asked, holding the cat and vigorously scratching his neck and ears, appreciating that the fish was actually in someone else's hands now.

"The plumbing."

Roger stuck a paw out towards Killian as if begging him not to dispose of his long awaited for toy. Killian bumpily pet his head, still at odds with his little murderer.

"Do we say something?" Killian asked.

"Here lies Betty," she began. "Betty the Asshole Fish, as we all affectionately called him." Emma let out a short laugh and Killian snorted. "We gave it our best shot, fish, though after flaring up at even Ariel, I'm pretty sure the problem was you."

"Who's Ariel?"

"She's practically a mermaid."

"Ahhh."

"Well, have fun in fishy heaven. May you find fishy love to rehydrate that shriveled little heart. Okay, flush him."

"Emma, that took a rather unpleasant turn. Give it another try on the send off."

"Fine. Okay. May you find peace and harmony—and if you haunt anyone, haunt Anna because she did this to both of us. Now, out to sea you go."

"Aye, aye, Captain Swan."

With that, Betty swirled around the porcelain bowl, and for a second, Emma missed the way his tail trailed behind him like when he glided through his tank. And in the instant after that, dear old departed Betty was pulled into the dark beyond of Boston's plumbing system.

Emma turned to him. "Do you think he's really going out to sea? I mean, I know that's what they say when we're kids."

"Eh, probably more like a sewage plant."

"I'm sorry I made your holiday a fiasco. I'm sure you have places to be."

"Technically it was this little guy's fault, but he's so cute, I think I'll forgive him." She smiled as she pet him, still safe and snug in her arms and eyeing Killian warily with no intention of leaving.

"I prefer handsome or even dashing, but I think I fall into the 'cute' category from time to time, so does that mean I'm pardoned as well?"

She chuckled a little and after a beat, sighed and held Roger out to Killian. "Thanks for letting me steal your cat."

"You can steal him anytime you wish, Emma." Roger let out an irritated meow, but sunk his claws into Killian's chest anyway and began to purr. "I guess I'll leave you to getting ready for Thanksgiving," he said, unable to resist phishing for information.

"Actually, I was planning on having a Thanksgiving alone with my fish. My only family is out of the country right now and, I don't know, it just felt nice not to make a big deal of things."

"And now I'm stealing back your only remaining companion after inadvertently raising a killer whose been plotting to murder your fish, probably for some time. I think I've ruined everything now," he smirked.

"I'm sure I'm keeping you from your own plans, too." Now, Emma's turn to pry.

"Same situation; only family's in another country and just the mere thought of going to my mate's Thanksgiving makes my blood pressure rise." He paused and ventured to ask, "Most places are closed today, but I have leftover takeout if you're—"

"Yeah, me, too," she said and immediately regretted her quickness.

"Oh. Okay, well, I suppose I'll leave you to it then." He began to walk toward the door, but turned back and said smoothly, "I insist you house Roger for the evening."

"What's wrong, afraid he's a cold-blooded killer coming after you next?" Even after this awkward situation, the flirtatiousness of her tone was hardly masked. Amazing what a shared last minute fish funeral could do. Killian played off of it.

"Bloody terrified, lass." He placed Roger in her arms, making a happy cat out of him once again. "It's changed the way I look at him." In the movement, the two of them were brought closer together. If it weren't for Roger, he was sure the draw between them would've snapped them together like magnets too close.

"I guess I can take him off your hands, but it wouldn't make much sense. You'd be on your own, too…" Fuck it. She was going for it. "What kind of take out do you have?"

"Indian."

"Hm, Chinese for me."

"Ah, interesting combination. Well, your Thanksgiving holiday is about different people coming together to give thanks, yes?"

"The glossed over, sugar-coated version of the pilgrims and Native Americans is, yeah. Though I'm pretty sure the truth is there was a grisly beheading by the savage pilgrims in there, too."

"Well, why don't we celebrate over this guy then?"

"What, for bringing us together?"

"Why not? I'm very thankful I was finally able to meet you, Emma Swan."

And, she was thankful for his accent and the way her name sounded in it. She was thankful he hadn't taken away her cat (hers; both himself and the fuzzball seemed to already belong to her and he knew it). She was thankful for his return with a plastic bag full of Styrofoam containers for their leftover-feast. She was thankful he had never seen A Christmas Story and thankful for the ability to rewind cable. She was thankful he liked it as much as she had. Thankful he liked to pause movies and use commercial breaks to tell stories like she did.

She was thankful that she had a bottle of wine that slowly emptied itself into their glasses after the movie was long done. And she was thankful he seemed to read her mind, leaning in for a kiss they'd both been thinking of for hours at just the right time.

Lastly, she was just as thankful for Roger, the tuxedo cat that had changed her life in more ways than one.


End file.
